


Begging

by Dansnotavampire



Series: The Kepcobi Dua Lipa fic anthology [5]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Everybody Lives, Except pryce she gets shot in the head in like the third paragraph, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Pining, Probably ooc, Sharing a Bed, Shooting, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Trans Daniel Jacobi, so much fucking pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: Somehow, you survive. Somehow, you escape. Somehow, you convince Jacobi to let you stay.





	Begging

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't write summaries, can I? 
> 
> Based on the song Begging by Dua Lipa

Somehow, you survive. Somehow, you escape. Somehow, you convince Jacobi to let you stay.

You landed on a beach, you and Jacobi, and Pryce. And the others; though they disappear. They invite Jacobi to come with them; they're going to find someone, anyone, who can help them bring Goddard to the ground. He says no, much to your surprise. He wishes them luck, however. Tells them to stay safe, and to stay hidden. Tells them that they should be able to find him if they need to. You agree with the sentiment, but you keep your mouth shut. It's better that way.

The two of you stay on that beach for hours, an unconscious Pryce and so many unspoken words between the two of you. The ship is still serviceable, supplies and utilities still intact. Hera's not there anymore; she (not it, never it - just because Pryce doesn't see intelligence as human doesn't mean you don't) talked Minkowski and Lovelace through downloading her into something more portable, and then deleted herself. You're happy for her, as far as you are capable of being. Happy that she - that all of them - get to be free.

You double check the ties around Pryce's wrists, pulling them tighter than they need to be but not as tight as you want them. You offer Jacobi the pistol before you inject the stimulants that will wake her up. He shakes his head, instead saying "Can I have the syringe instead? I want to send the bitch do her death, not cause it." He doesn't say anything about you not having enough blood on your hands for all the hurt you've caused, but it doesn't matter. You agree.

He jabs the syringe into the side of her neck brutally, and she jerks awake in less than a minute. You give her just enough time to register what's happening, how she's going to die, before you blow her brains out, spattering crimson over the white sand and into the blue water, painting the sea foam a delicate shade of pink. Jacobi spits on her corpse. "Good fucking riddance," he says.

You stay the night in the hollow shell of the ship, forming a plan for what to do next. Jacobi just wants to survive; he doesn't need revenge, doesn't need retribution. He just needs to live.

You don't need anything, but you ask him if he'd let you tag along, and he shrugs and says "Sure."

You guess that whatever happens next will involve the two of you, together, just as it's been since a meeting in a bar in six years ago. You're still not sure why he let you stay, why he didn't take the chance to get rid of you, but it doesn't really matter anymore. He let's you stay with him, let's you be in his life. That's what matters.

You wake up the next morning, and he's already packed food and water for a week, and a few thousand dollars in cash. He tells you to hurry the fuck up, that you've got places to go, people to fool into thinking you're normal. (More specifically, a sweet old landlady and a fine arts college looking for a new teacher. You're not sure where Jacobi got those qualifications from, but you don't really care, either.)

Three months later, and Jacobi - Daniel now, now that you're no longer his commanding officer - is thriving. You're not, not really. You're just doing okay, not particularly good, but not particularly bad, either. Jacobi grounds you, somehow, with his steady hands and slightly less steady emotions. You honestly don't think that you'd have made it this far without him.

(And you pretend that that thought doesn't terrify you, pretend that it doesn't make you feel more vulnerable than you have in years.)

 _All of these highs_  
_And all of these lows_  
_Don't keep me company_  
_I've been breathing you in_  
_And drinking you down_  
_You're the only remedy_

You wake up from a nightmare; or something of that nature. You don't remember it, just feel the clammy sweat on your skin, the stiffness in your muscles, the uncomfortable prickling of forgotten fear down your back. There's a soft knock at your bedroom door, followed by Jacobi's even softer voice. "Warren," he says, calmly "are you okay? I heard you cry out." He always was a light sleeper; had to be, when he ended up coming on missions with you.

When he receives no reply, he says "I'm coming in," and gently pushes open the door, bare feet padding across the carpet towards you. He sits on the bed next to you, the mattress dipping slightly. "What happened?" he asks, though it should be fairly obvious.

"Nightmare," is all that you say. You know it's more than that, but right now the only problem is the fact that you can't shake the shadows of fear from your mind. He inches closer to you, puts his arm around you. You lean into his touch almost unconsciously, relishing in his warmth against your cold and clammy skin. His hand comes up to run through your hair, and you practically melt. You didn't realise how much you missed this, simple intimacy with another person. It's been years since this, since someone touched you like this, without your prompting. It's a testimony to what kind of man you've become; no longer are you Colonel Warren James Kepler, Director of SI5, a man as unbreakable as he was unreadable. Now you're just Warren, an ex-paramilitary fuck up with just enough qualifications to land a shitty office job, and a grand total of one friend (who comes in the form of your snarky ex-subordinate.)

In short, you're a fucking mess.

You don't voice any of these thoughts.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jacobi asks, his voice still so soft, so caring. So much kinder than you deserve. Monster.

"I can't rem-" your voice catches on the word, as if you were about to start sobbing like a goddamn child (though not like you were as a child, because you didn't get to cry. You didn't get to be weak.) You swallow, and try again. "I can't remember what it was about; hell, I can't remember dreaming. Just waking up in a cold sweat." Your voice pitches lower, almost inaudible. "Dammit, Jacobi, how am I so fucking weak? How are you still here?" You're not sure what you mean by that last question, not even sure why you said it, but Jacobi understands. Somehow, he always understands.

He removes his hand from your hair, moving it to hold your hand, the gesture more comforting than anything anyone else has given you in years. He doesn't tell you that you're not weak, doesn't tell you that you're going to be okay. He just looks you in the eyes, and says "Its okay to be weak."

He's so close to you, his forehead almost touching yours. It would be so easy, you realise, to lean across and claim his lips with your own, to taste his kiss the way you've kind of wanted to ever since you met him in that bar so many years ago. You don't, because it's not the right time and it's not the right place, but you know that you could. Instead, you allow a yawn to pass through your lips, and mutter an apology. Jacobi ignores it, and just asks if you want him to stay. You know that you should say no, and tell him to go back to his own bed, because you should be strong enough to weather unknown nightmares without the heat of another person next to you. You know all of this, yet you tell him that he can stay. You lie back on the bed, and he slips in neatly in front of you, your bare chest against his clothed back, as if he bel-

You cut that thought off before it can form in your head. No one has ever belonged with you, and you have never needed anyone by your side.

You're not about to start now.

 _Say you're gonna hold my head up_  
_Say you're gonna break my fall_  
_Say you're gonna stay forever_  
_Baby, this is all I want_

You're not sure how long it's been, since Goddard, since Pryce, since the (first) nightmare. It's been long enough, long enough that you've settled in a bit, made some friends, made the best effort you can to live a normal life. It's not working, not really. You miss it, being in charge, having control, having a team, having a loyal second in command. (Though really, it's your fault that you lost that.)

It's been at least a year, you think. Probably more. Possibly less. Jacobi would know; he seems to know more than you about everything these days. You don't really mind, but god forbid that you let him know that.

Working is easier now than it was; people have generally accepted your story of you being ex-military, and you've actually made some sort-of-friends. You're not particularly close to them, but you can talk to them. Not about important things, but you can talk. They don't know about Jacobi. His friends don't know about you, either. You don't particularly like it, but you understand that it's probably for the best.

You get home from work, push open the door to your shared apartment, and Jacobi's in the kitchen. He shouldn't be in the kitchen, you think. He can't fucking cook.

He looks up at you, and smirks. "Hey, Warren."

You try and ignore the feel of your heart fluttering in your chest, suppress the light blush that threatens to dance across your cheeks. "Hey, Jacobi," you say.

His face takes on a sheepish expression, and he gestures to the lightly smoking saucepan that he's got on the hob. "Uh... help? Please?"

You chuckle.

"What!" he snaps, mock-defensive, before he pouts exaggeratedly and mumbles "I was just trying to help." He holds that expression for one, two, three seconds, before he looks back up at you with a brilliant, blinding smile (and even you can't ignore the way your heart skips a beat at that.)

"Seriously though," he says "I can't fucking cook."

You cross over to him, and inspect the smoking disaster that is the contents of the saucepan. "What, pray tell, were you even trying to do here?"

"Well," he says, drawing the word out, "Long story short, I was trying to make macaroni cheese. I failed. Miserably."

You laugh, the first proper laugh you've had in recent memory. It fits that Jacobi would be the one to make you laugh again, you think. He always was your favourite.

"Yeah," you say "you kinda did. Go... do some drawing, or whatever, I'll make you some goddamn macaroni."

Jacobi grabs one of his (many, many) sketchbooks, but instead of going to the lounge, or his room, or out on to the balcony - where he'd sat sketching for damn near the entire first week after you moved here - he sits at the counter, and starts to draw you. "You know I have to move to do this, right?" You ask.

"Yup," he says, popping the p, "doesn't matter though. I can't see you posing for anything, S-"

He cuts himself off before he says "Sir." To as much your own surprise as anyone else's, you're glad he did. You much prefer the comfortable camaraderie that you two have now to the stiff, artificial feel of the friendship (if it could even be called that) you two had when you worked for Goddard.

"I don't know," you say, ignoring the slip. "I could definitely pose for you, Jacobi."

You try and ignore how it sounds like a preposition. Jacobi doesn't.

"Ha. That's what she said."

You flick some water at him. "Oh grow up, Jacobi. As far as I know, neither of us are into 'she's."

Your tone is disapproving, but you're smiling.

You pour the macaroni into a dish, then sprinkle on some cheese and breadcrumbs before sliding it into the oven. You turn around and lean against the counter, and smile at Jacobi. He looks up at you, and his face twitches slightly when he notices the change in your position. "You're lucky I finished," he huffs, but with no real anger behind it.

"You're not finished," you say, with a debonair smirk. "Daniel Jacobi. You have approximately twenty-three minutes and thirty seconds. Draw me."

"Sure," he breathes out, with an easy smile on his face, before he looks back down and starts drawing, gentle scratches of pencil on paper turning into long, smooth strokes.

This time, you acknowledge the fluttering in your chest.

 _'Cause all my bones_  
_Are begging me to beg for you_  
_Begging me to beg for your love_  
_All my lungs_  
_Are begging me to beg for you_  
_Begging me to beg for your love_

It's, somehow, new years eve. Again. Your second since you left Goddard, since you shot Pryce.

Your first since you started... feeling. Things. For ~~Jacobi~~ Daniel. (You've been roommates for over two years now, you should probably call him by his own damn name.)

Even more surprisingly, the two of you are at a New Years Eve party. With Daniel's colleagues. And you're definitely drunk, or at least well on your way to being so. You're stood over next to a wall, observing, not happily, per se, but contentedly. Jacobi's over on the other side of the room, talking to a lanky, brown haired man who seems suspiciously familiar to a certain communications officer that you used to know. You consider going over to him, making small talk, distracting this man from Daniel's very specific brand of flirting that is as hard to detect as it is to resist. (The brand of flirting that you only want directed at yourself.)

Bored, and tired, and curious, you employ your lip reading skills to try and see what the pair are talking about.

"Wait, before you go," Daniel says, catching the man who might just be Doug Eiffel by the elbow, "Can I get your number? Just in case we need to get in touch with each other."

You can't see the other man's reply, but you assume it was positive from the way that Daniel pulls out his phone, and types something in. You tune out. (If you hadn't, you'd have received definite confirmation that it was Doug Eiffel, and you'd have realised that Daniel wasn't flirting with him - rather, he was talking about flirting with someone else. Who that someone else is... well, I'm sure you can work that out.)

Someone comes up to you; a friend-or-maybe-colleague of Daniel's. "So, you're the mysterious roommate that we've heard so little about." There's no question in his voice, so you just affirm his guess.

"Yeah. Warren Kepler. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," this man says. "I'm Jake."

There's a lull in the conversation - as if you both have something to say, but neither of you want to say it. You sigh, just to fill the silence, and take a sip of your champagne. Jake sighs too.

"He's certainly something, isn't he?" Jake asks. "Daniel, that is."

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little tipsy from the champagne and a little more free of thought from the late hour. "He's definitely something."

Unbeknownst to you, in that moment, your heart is not so much as on your sleeve as it is plastered across your face, your smile soft and gentle, your eyes warm and admiring. Someone who didn't know you as well as you claimed to might almost describe the look as... well.

As loving.

Jake looks at you, at your expression, and says "Well, I'm glad he has someone who cares about him like you do around. He deserves to be happy."

You twitch, as startled as your inebriated mind will allow you to be.

"Oh, no," you say. "He... he doesn't have me." You pause, considering your next words before you say them. "I mean, if he wanted, he would have me. But... he doesn't. So he doesn't."

Jake smiles, sagely. "I know what you mean. But still. If you think you can, then go for it. He won't be around forever, no matter how long you think he's going to stay for you."

A dry chuckle escapes your lips. "Wise words, my friend. Wise words."

Because you've already lost him before, haven't you? Haven't you lost him and you didn't love him then but you cared for him, and he never knew.

And maybe you love him now, so you're not going to let him leave you behind without knowing that he can always return to you.

You glance across the room, and see Daniel stood there, hands behind his back and a shot glass in his mouth. He puts the (impressively empty) glass back down, and looks up. When he makes eye contact with you, he beckons you with a flutter of his hand. You turn to Jake - you think his name was Jake - mouth open to ask him if your hair looks okay, but he's gone. You run your fingers through it anyway, and walk across the room towards Daniel.

"Hey, Daniel," you say. "How much have you had to drink?" You ask, because you care, and because you're not going to kiss a man who's less sober than you. (You're not sure when your intention became to kiss him, but that's beside the point. You're not going to kiss him while drunk at a party.)

He doesn't answer, instead presses a shot glass full of amber coloured fluid into your hand. You dont smell it, or ask what it is, you just down it in one. It's not whiskey. You expected it to be whiskey.

"It's brandy!" Daniel tells you. "Because... because Christmas!" He's so excited, so alive, a far cry from the bitter man who tried to kill you while you were both lost in space. Hell, he's a far cry from the sad and lonely man that you followed around for weeks before you essentially seduced him in a bar.

You've seen him like this once before, maybe. In a field, violet and crimson starbursts overhead illuminating his face, his hair, his eyes. If you saw him like that now, you realise, you'd kiss him.

You try not to think too hard about that.

"Daniel Jacobi," you say again, using what he had so sweetly dubbed your 'Commander's voice'. "How much have you had to drink?"

He grins lazily, a smile that is definitely his, slightly crooked, his teeth not showing. Not the imitation of a smile that he'd been forced to wear for weeks at the decree of a woman who had made herself a monster. A monster who was lying dead on a beach, now no more than a pile of bones and a pair of the most advanced cybernetic eyes the world has never seen.

"I've had... a lot, Colonel," he says, seemingly unaware of the absurdity of the formal address. You flinch when he says it, but don't mention it. There's no point.

"That's it, Daniel," you say. "You've had enough. Do you wanna go now?"

He wraps an arm around you, and nuzzles his face into your chest, eerily like a cat. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Let's go home."

You attempt to peel him off of you, with some success; his arm relaxes slightly, allowing you to lead him outside. Your arm doesn't have to slip neatly round his waist, but it doesn't do any harm, so you don't remove it. You might, in fact, pull it a bit tighter when the two of you are stood on the freezing pavement together, waiting for a cab. He lets go as you crawl into the cab when it (finally) arrives, but the moment you're seated, he's curled up next to you again. You tip the driver heavily when you get out, because you're giddy on alcohol and Daniel's proximity, and just because you want someone to have a good night. He smiles and wishes you a happy new year.

"And you, my friend," you say back to him, before you move Daniel's grip to your own hand and pull him (or maybe he pulls you; you're not sure) inside. You check the time when you're in the elevator. 23:54. Six minutes to midnight. You'll be back in plenty of time.

The two of you stumble into your apartment two minutes later, and Jacobi immediately heads into the living room, presumably to watch the fireworks. You grab yourself a glass of water, trying to ignore the way that Daniel's hand in yours sent crackles of electricity up your arm, trying to ignore how hopeless you're being.

You fail.

You then follow him into the living room, where he's leant on the window sill, waiting on the fireworks, you assume.

He turns to face you when you tread on the one annoyingly loud floorboard right in the middle of the room. You open your mouth to greet him, but he interrupts you.

"You called me Daniel." His voice is no longer slurred or tired, instead sounding far more awake, more sober. "Earlier, you called me Daniel. It... it was nice."

"And you called me Colonel," you counter. _"And I flinched_ ," you don't say. Maybe he didn't notice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean too... it just. It slipped out."

"It's fine," you tell him, walking over. "Look out the window; the fireworks'll be starting soon."

He turns back to the window just as the clock strikes twelve. A bell rings somewhere, off in the distance, just loud enough to be heard. The first firework goes off, a shower of golden sparks exploding in the clear, moonlit night. Daniel's eyes widen as three more go off in quick succession. It's comfortingly similar to a Christmas eve in a field so long ago, and yet so different.

Then, Jacobi was fire, his every movement lightning and passion as he set off dozens of violet and blue starbursts above the two of you, his enjoyment more in the action of blowing something up than in the simple beauty of the explosions.

Then, all you thought about was how talented an operative he was, and how glad you were that he'd survived the year.

Now, Daniel is still, a calm, almost serene expression on his face. The last year has been good for him, you think. He's staring at the fireworks, eyes transfixed on the clouds of stars above. His brown eyes are sparkling in the reflected light of them.

And now, all you're thinking about is how beautiful he looks, and how soft his lips would feel against your own.

"Happy new year, Daniel," you say, almost inaudibly.

He sighs, and lightly touches your arm. "Happy new year, Warren."

Another few fireworks go off. You don't watch them, instead watching Daniel. You're always watching Daniel, really. Partly out of concern for him, constant worry left over from the days when he was a little too volatile and a little too self-hating to be left alone. Part of it's more than that. Part of it's seeing how he's changed, going from bitter and angry, grieving and alone, to being complacent, maybe even happy.

A further part of it is the way sunlight cards through his hair, dances in his eyes. It's the way he bites his lip when he's stressed, and the way he'll try and cook if you're not home, even though he messes up almost every time.

It's the way that he smells like honey and charcoal, and the way he'll stay with you in the night, or show up at your door fresh from nightmares, or still grieving from the loss of the closest person to family he's ever had.

It's the way that his hand comes up to your face, and that his lips press to yours. He tastes like brandy and whiskey and a host of other drinks and it's not him but it's still as close to a perfect kiss as you'll ever get from Daniel Jacobi.

You push him away, though, because he's drunk, and so are you, and you'll regret this in the morning if you let it go any further. "Daniel, you're drunk," you say.

"Exactly," he says. "I wouldn't be brave enough to do this sober."

Fuck.

"You don't need to be brave," you say. "I just don't want you to do this drunk."

He slumps against your chest, and you can't help feel that you've done something wrong. "Get some rest," you say, stroking his hair. "We can talk in the morning."

You carry him to his room, and he passes out the moment that his head hits the pillow. You get a glass of water, and some aspirin, and leave it on his bedside table to help with the next day's inevitable hangover.

Then, you go to bed.

 _Swear I'm gonna hold your head up_  
_Swear I'm gonna break your fall_  
_Swear we're gonna last forever_  
_Baby, this is all I want_

You don't talk in the morning. Daniel spends the whole day in bed, nursing his headache. You take him some food in the early afternoon, and he thanks you. He doesn't invite any further conversation, so you leave.

You don't talk the next day, either, and Jacobi goes back to work on the third, so you end up just... not talking about it. You tell yourself that it's fine, that he was just drunk and confused and feeling far too affectionate.

(You know it was more than that, that you both want more than that, but you can pretend. You'll be fine.)

Come March, you've all but forgotten - well, forgotten isn't really the right word, but it's become something you won't talk about sober, and neither of you drink that much anymore.

Daniel hasn't asked to draw you in weeks. You don't offer to pose for him, either. There are fractures in your still fragile friendship, and neither of you know how to fix them.

It's kind of ironic, you think, the way that you and Daniel, who had killed for each other, who had tried to kill each other, could have your friendship ruined by something as simple as a kiss.

You get home one day, and Daniel (though should you go back to calling him Jacobi now, because you haven't had a proper conversation in weeks?) is sat on the couch, flicking through a sketchbook. It's over a year old, this one, covered in simple black card rather than being one of the elegant leather-bound books you'd started buying for him. He snaps it shut when you greet him, which startles you. He's never been shy about his work before.

"You alright?" you ask him. He just grunts in reply.

You raise an eyebrow. "Seriously, Daniel. What's happened." You've pulled out your 'Commander's voice', you realise. You didn't mean to, but you don't back down.

He lets out a lengthy sigh. "A guy from work - Jake, I think you met him, y'know, at the New Year's thing? Anyway, he," Daniel pauses, takes a breath, before barrelling on. "He asked me out."

"And?" you ask, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy that hits you.

"And I said no."

You can hear the obviously tacked on to the end, despite the fact that it isn't said.

The fact that he said no definitely doesn't fill you with hope. Not at all.

"Oh," you say. "Why? He seemed like a nice guy."

(And wow, you really do enjoy digging yourself further into this mess, don't you?)

"Yeah, he's nice," says Daniel, "but-" he sighs - "he's not my type."

"Oh?" You ask, your voice rising sharply. "And who is your type?"

He sighs, soft and contemplative. "I - I don't know. Not him, though."

You try and swallow the lump that rises in your throat when he says that.

It's not your fault that you're a helpless romantic, it's not your fault that you were hoping he'd say "You, Warren. You're my type."

It's not your fault that you want him.

(It's not anyone's fault. It just is.)

 _'Cause all my bones_  
_Are begging me to beg for you_  
_Begging me to beg for your love_

You've lived with Daniel Jacobi for nearly three years when he drags Douglas Eiffel onto your (metaphorical) doorstep. He looks good. Healthier. He's gained some weight, and the ever present bruised skin under his eyes has faded back to normal. He jumps slightly when he sees you, but recovers fairly quickly.

"Eiffel, it's good to see you," you say, ever the diplomat.

He scoffs. "I wish I could say the same."

You smile. Some things never change.

"Daniel, why, exactly, have you brought our most irritating subordinate back here?"

"Ex-subordinate," Eiffel mutters sullenly.

"Yes, of course, what are you doing now?" You ask, your voice sickly sweet and dreadfully patronising.

Daniel levels you a flat glare. "Warren, shut the fuck up," he says.

You chuckle. "Shutting the fuck up, Danny."

"Never call me that again. Ever."

You open your mouth to reply, but Eiffel - Eiffel - cuts you off.

"Will you two just stop flirting, for fucks sake! I actually need to talk to you. Surprising, I know."

"Right, of course," says Daniel, "what's happened? I thought you and the others went into witness protection?"

"Yeah, yeah, we did. They need your testimonies, basically. It shouldn't take too long, but you're probably going to want to come stay with us for a few days."

You look at Daniel. "I'm game if you are," you tell him.

"Sure, I'll need to take some time off, but we can do it -" he turns to Eiffel - "Do you want to stay the night, or have you got somewhere to stay?"

You give a small sigh of relief when Eiffel tells you that he has a hotel. You don't think that you'd be up to sharing a room with Daniel.

The room is left in a hollow silence when Eiffel leaves, like glass. As if it would shatter if you so much as breathed too hard. You walk over to the sofa, and collapse.

"Fucking hell," you mutter. "I thought we were done with all this."

Jacobi comes and sits by you, far enough away that

"Yeah," he sighs. "God, I thought this was over."

"We're gonna have to tell them we shot Pryce. Have you got a suit?"

Daniel snorts. "What, trying to look respectable as you admit to waking someone up just to shoot them in the head?" his voice dips to a murmur when he adds "Of course. Of course you only care about appearances."

"In court, Mr. Jacobi, people wear suits. You should know this by now." You ignore the way he flinches a little when you call him that, ignore the sick feeling that settles in your stomach as you watch his face close off.

"Yes, S- Kepler. I do know that."

You swallow. "Yes. Yes. Good. Right. Anyway."

Jacobi stands up. "'Night, Kepler."

You sigh. "G'night, Jacobi."

Then you head off to bed.

 _Losing my mind_  
_Dreaming I'll find_  
_Another kind of love_  
_But this blood in my veins_  
_And the thought of your taste_  
_No, I can't give it up_  
_So look at my face_  
_Not running away_

You wake up at about four AM, flashes of nightmares - of Daniel dead, lying on a beach where Miranda Pryce was, of Maxwell in her place, telling you that it was all your fault, that she was dead because of you, of all the blood on your hands never being clean - still behind your eyes. You won't get back to sleep, so instead you shove some clothes in a suitcase, pack a spongebag for Daniel and yourself - face wash, toothpaste, testosterone, etcetera. You'll be able to pick up whatever you've forgotten when you arrive.

Six AM rolls around, and you start making breakfast - pancakes and bacon with maple syrup. A classic.

You put a plate on a tray that you've dug out from... somewhere, and take it in to Daniel. You're socially smart enough to realise that you owe him an apology for your behaviour last night.

"Mornin', sunshine," you say as you nudge his door open with your hip. "I've got breakfast."

He pops his head out from where it's buried underneath the covers, his hair a glorious mess (one that you're definitely not imagining running your fingers through.)

"Mornin'," he mumbles back at you, as he sits up.

You pass him the tray, and he smiles up at you, the kind of unguarded grin that is a rare treat even now. "Wow," he says. "I feel spoiled."

"It's... uh. It's an apology. For last night. I... I shouldn't have snapped at you like that." A sigh rattles through your chest, and you run a hand through your hair. "I'm just... sorry." You look back at him, and smile, softly. "Have you packed yet?"

"Nah, not yet. I'll do it when I've eaten - this is really good, by the way. Not like that's a surprise though." He laughs, softly. "And... you're forgiven. Obviously. You're my friend, Warren."

Oh. Obviously you're friends, you've lived together for three years, but it still makes you jump. Daniel Jacobi, no longer your subordinate, your bomb, your weapon, but in fact your friend. It's nice.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, we're friends. That's... good," you say. Daniel laughs.

"Really Warren? You think I let you live here for three years because I hated you?" He takes your wrist in his hand, and spins you to face him. "Surprising as it may be, I do genuinely care about you."

You want to kiss him. You spend a lot of time wanting to kiss Daniel these days. You won't kiss him, but you want to. You just say "Thanks. You too - seriously though, have you packed? I've done a spongebag; yes, it does have your shots in it.

"Oh, thanks." He moves his tray to the side, and stretches. "I still need to pack, but it shouldn't take too long. Are you done?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm done." You pause to yawn. "I woke up at four because... well. You know. But I'm packed, yeah. Need a hand with yours?"

Daniel gets out from under the covers, and sits on the edge of the bed. "Nah, I'm good. Go get some rest; you're gonna need it."

You open your mouth to argue, but he's right; you're fucking knackered, and you've got a whole day of travelling ahead of you. You go back to bed.

You're woken up a few hours later when Daniel knocks on your bedroom door. "Eiffel's here, you up?" He asks, pushing the door open.

"Yeah, yeah, just getting up," you say, sliding out of the bed. You grab your bag and walk out into the hallway, taking Daniel's from him as you pass him. He opens his mouth to protest, but you silence him. "Let me carry it, I'm fine."

He shrugs. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but-"

"Good."

He snorts. It's kinda cute, you think. It shouldn't be, but it is.

"You two okay there?" Eiffel calls from the living room. "We kinda need to get a move on."

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Daniel calls back, right as you say that you're just coming. Eiffel nods at you when you enter the room.

"The car's outside," he says, and practically shoves you out of the door and down the stairs.

The three of you sit in silence for the first half an hour of the journey, you reading, Daniel staring out of the window, until Eiffel tries to diffuse the awkwardness in the air by starting conversation. "So..." he says, "How... are you guys?"

"We're good," Daniel replies, completely deadpan. "Completely amazing, in fact. Couldn't be better!"

You snort quietly. "We're pretty good, Eiffel. I mean, I would have preferred to never have contact with Marcus Cutter again, after what he and Pryce tried to do to me, but if I have to see him again, then burying his life's - lives', I suppose - work is good context to do it again.

Daniel looks back at you. "What did they do to you? I remember them trying to airlock me... and shoot me. Twice."

You guess that he's got more to say after that, but you cut him off anyway. "Exactly."

He drops into a stunned silence, his mouth open slightly. Eiffel lets out a low whistle.

"I mean, Pryce also tried to rip my tongue out, and we all know how much I like talking." You inject some humour into the last sentence, but the joke falls flat.

"Sorry," Daniel says, "I'm still... fuck. Why did you have to say that?"

"I can take it back if you want me to?"

He laughs. "No, no. It was just... surprising." He puts on an overly cheesy expression, before saying "Oh Warren, darling, I never new you cared so much!"

You look up, and can see Eiffel's smiling face in the mirror. "You two are doing okay, then?" he says.

"Yeah, yeah. We are," you reply, and lean back against the seat. Your fingers brush against Daniel's, and he snatches his hand away into his lap. You ignore the sharp stab of disappointment that flits through your chest when he does so. You take a calm, controlled breath, try not to show your emotions. You're out of practice, you realise.

You lean forward again. "So," you ask Eiffel, "What do you guys actually need from us?"

"Basically, they're gonna want all you know on Cutter, Goddard, and their various crimes against humanity, yadda yadda yadda. Other than that? No idea."

You rest your back against the seat again, and consider closing your eyes to try and get some more sleep. You decide not to; you can sleep when you get to... wherever it is you're going.

Daniel turns away from the window, and back towards you. "Hey, Warren?" he asks. You look towards him, and quirk an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "If you long-story-short your testimony," he says, "Never mind Cutter killing you to get revenge, I will do it myself."

"You'd miss me too much," you quip back.

"I'd get over it - I'm sure someone would be willing to take me in."

"They'd make you learn to cook first."

He huffs. "Okay, you can live. If you make me pancakes for breakfast whenever."

"What about waffles?"

"Waffles are... also good." Daniel trails off into a yawn.

You smile softly at him, and tell him to get some sleep. You watch as he slumps down in the seat, and his breathing slows.

You open up your book again, and carry on reading. The rest of the journey passes in a relatively comfortable silence between you and Eiffel. Daniel doesn't stir as he sleeps, which is good. You don't want Eiffel to see him have a nightmare - despite the fact that he almost certainly has enough of his own. You gently shake him awake when you arrive, and offer to carry his bag in for him. He insists on taking it, and you let him this time. The two of you walk into the house and are greeted - much to your surprise - rather warmly. Daniel receives considerably more affection than you do, but that's hardly surprising. You eat dinner with Lovelace, and Minkowski, and Minkowski's husband and you make small talk, and you completely ignore the fact that there's an AI in the coffee machine and that the man who almost killed everyone in this room is finally going to get what he deserves. That can be dealt with tomorrow.

\---

You and Daniel have to share a bed. It's not something that you haven't done before, but you weren't expecting it.

You sleep curled up next to eachother, even on this huge bed you're sharing. You can feel Daniel's breath on your skin, smell his shampoo, hear his quiet snoring. It's everything you've ever wanted, but without the context you want it in. You would laugh at your own misfortune, at this hideous level of dramatic irony, but you don't want to disturb Daniel.

You let yourself fall asleep, instead. Neither of you have nightmares that night.

\---

The next week passes in a blur of lawyers and memories and trauma, and you'd forgotten how much had happened to you. You hold Daniel one night as he sobs himself to a fitful sleep, and you whisper pointless comforts into his hair. You wait for him to fall asleep, and then... then you press your gentle lips to his forehead, and you whisper "I love you."

The fact that he can't hear you really doesn't make it any easier.

\---

The trial is, objectively, hell. You don't remember it in much detail.

What you do remember, however, is Marcus Cutter, in the evil, sickening flesh, looking you in the eye, and calling you a traitor. A coward.

He'd smiled at you, perfectly composed, sharp as a razor, too many teeth showing, and he'd begun to speak.

"Warren, dear, how good it is to see you again! How are you, you traitorous little fuck up? I missed you!" His tone of voice was uncannily peppy, even more so than it used to be when you worked for him. "I bet it feels good to change sides just to save your own hide, doesn't it? Coward."

He screams on the last word, every ounce of his being rage and ambition and horror, no longer even human. They make him shut up, but you can still barely breathe, barely think.

Then Daniel slides his hand into yours, and the world stops spinning for a while.

_'Cause all my bones_   
_Are begging me to beg for you_   
_Begging me to beg for your love_

There's a party, afterwards. You're well on you way to being drunk. Daniel's off talking to Lovelace and Minkowski, presumably catching up on the events of the past three years. You're sat at the side of the room, half empty glass in hand, when Eiffel - or should you start calling him Doug, now? - comes over to talk to you.

"Kepler," he says, by means of getting your attention.

"Doug," you reply, just gauging his reaction. He's completely sober, you can tell. It's not a surprise, given his history. You can't imagine it though, which says more about your relationship with drink than you're entirely comfortable thinking about.

He doesn't react to your informal address, so you decide that it's allowed.

"Are you, y'know, okay? I mean, Cutter did kinda tear into you out there."

 _"I'm used to it,"_ you could reply, and four years ago that would've been the truth. It isn't anymore

"Daniel was - Daniel - He helped. He helps." You hope Doug understands what you're trying to say. "I'd be lost without him," you muse.

Doug only smiles, softly. He's mellowed out these past few years, grown up a little. It suits him.

"How long have you two been, uhh..." he starts.

"Me and Daniel? We're - we're not. We're not." Your voice dips when you repeat yourself.

A mixture of surprise and confusion flashes over Doug's face. "Wait, you're not-"

"No, we're not," you sigh. "We almost were. New year's, last year. We... we kissed. I said we'd talk about it, and, lo and behold, we didn't."

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks. You do. You want to sort this out, viscerally. You want Daniel Jacobi. In a more perfect universe, people might say you love him, but in this one, you don't know how to love people, not really.

Doug stands up, and grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. "Come with," he says. You go with him, if only for a lack of a better thing to do. He grabs Daniel as well, and the two of you follow him up the stairs, out to the balcony. Daniel's not quite as drunk as you, but it's a close thing.

"Right," says Doug. "You two," here he points a finger at the both of you, "are going to talk about your goddamn feelings. But, because you're both emotionally constipated, we're going to do it with a game. 'Apologies only'."

You hold up a finger. "Is that like... questions only, but with apologies? Oh _god_."

Needless to say, you have a lot you want to apologise for.

"Right, Kepler, you start," Doug says, before he leaves the balcony. And locks the door behind him.

"I'm sorry I left you to be mind controlled for weeks," is your first one. You should have apologised for that earlier, you realise.

"I'm sorry that I can't cook," Daniel replies.

"I'm sorry that I made you feel like a didn't trust you."

"I'm sorry that I almost burnt the kitchen down. Twice."

"I'm sorry that I spilt coffee on one of your sketchbooks."

Daniel takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry that I kissed you."

You exhale. "I'm sorry that you think I didn't want you to kiss me."

"I'm sorry that I... I'm sorry-" he takes a breath, and tries again. "I'm sorry that I can't tell you what I want from... this. From us." He looks close to passing out.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, "that I don't know how to love you the way I want to."

His eyes drift shut, the alcohol and the adrenaline rush of the past day finally getting to him. You pick the lock of the balcony door, then lift him up, and carry him to bed.

You don't think he'll remember this in the morning.

 _Swear I'm gonna hold your head up_  
_Swear I'm gonna break your fall_  
_Swear we're gonna last forever_  
_Baby, this is all I want_  
_'Cause all my bones_  
_Are begging me to beg for you_  
_Begging me to beg for your love_

One of the first things you learn the next morning, is that you were wrong. Daniel remembers almost every word of your conversation from last night.

"You dont need to know," is the first thing he says to you that day. "You don't need to know how to love someone, not really."

You turn and look at him, eyes wide. "You remember?"

"Of course I remember, you idiot. You said you loved me. I wouldn't forget that for the world."

"Oh?" Your voice cracks on the syllable. You daren't hope that he's saying what you want him to. "I mean, it's true," you say. "I do love you, I think. I just... don't know how. To love people.

"So? Neither do I," Daniel says, as his hand comes up to cup your jaw, as his thumb rests on your cheek. "But we can learn."

And then he leans in, and kisses you.

A moment later, you kiss back.


End file.
